


what makes a name

by amjnyard



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 03:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14155863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amjnyard/pseuds/amjnyard
Summary: Aleksander has been alive longer than he knows what to do with.The years start to float by, somewhere after a hundred and he’s never quite sure where they drift off to. Emotions become a fleeting fancy, anger and rage and lust all blurring together until they taste like ash in his mouth. He fakes his death every fifty years or so, careful to hide his true identity.Power is all he knows.Power and darkness.Aleksander isn’t a fool. He knows what the other Grisha whisper behind his back.Monsterthey hiss when they think he isn’t listening. He rides through the fields of Ravka,demonandheroandhereticall coming together to mingle inside his head.But Aleksander says nothing and continues his work. He continues hunting for the amplifiers, hunting for something, anything that will allow him to control the gaping maw he tore open through the middle of Ravka.The years pass thus.





	what makes a name

**Author's Note:**

> yeah this is rly fuckin emo sorry

Aleksander has been alive longer than he knows what to do with. 

The years start to float by, somewhere after a hundred and he’s never quite sure where they drift off to. Emotions become a fleeting fancy, anger and rage and lust all blurring together until they taste like ash in his mouth. He fakes his death every fifty years or so, careful to hide his true identity. 

Power is all he knows. 

Power and darkness. 

Aleksander isn’t a fool. He knows what the other Grisha whisper behind his back. _Monster_ they hiss when they think he isn’t listening. He rides through the fields of Ravka, _demon_ and _hero_ and _heretic_ all coming together to mingle inside his head. 

But Aleksander says nothing and continues his work. He continues hunting for the amplifiers, hunting for something, anything that will allow him to control the gaping maw he tore open through the middle of Ravka. 

The years pass thus.

Sometimes, Aleksander wishes for an equal. For someone with the same power as him, someone who knows what it is to drown in their own power. For Aleksander is drowning. He used to fight it. Used to beat back against the rolling waves of black that threaten to consume his vision at night. 

Now he has embraced it. But still... 

The idea of someone who can drown in their powers. Who knows what it’s like to be alone in the world, no one quite understanding what it’s like to possess power broader than anything known to man. Aleksander waits and waits and waits, the centuries flying by until he has no concept of time anymore. 

Slowly, Aleksander becomes the Darkling, the last vestiges of his human shell dropping away until only power remains. 

And he sits on his throne, watches the rise and fall of kings and queens and waits. He feigns human emotions, a laugh here to appease a doubtful general and a softened eye to woo a power hungry woman. 

Aleksander gives himself over to the roiling darkness and forgets who Aleksander was without the Darkling hovering over his shoulder. 

The Darkling’s not sure he even remembers who Aleksander is when he meets her. She’s timid, but he can see the spark inside of her and everything in him craves that spark. He wants to be lit up and he wants and wants and wants. She refuses her power, pushing it down and the Darkling relishes in the pain he causes her as he drags the knife across her skin. The darkness around them shatters to pieces, a golden arc of sun filling the tent and the Darkling can feel the volcra clawing inside him and knows he has what he needs. 

But she isn’t as willing to comply to his demands and he has to adjust his strategy. Raw power won’t work with her and the Darkling will do anything within his power to hold on to her. He is an ancient being and everything within him craves the bright light sequestered behind her ribs and flesh. 

Wanting has made him weak indeed. 

He sends out his best scouts, even puts the Otkazat'sya to use, hunting down Morozova’s stag. He counts down the days until her sunlight bends underneath his fingers. In the meantime, he occupies himself with the girl herself, watches as she becomes more proficient with her powers. 

Time doesn’t seem to be passing quite as quickly anymore and the Darkling feels the frenetic edge of panic and lust and want surge up against his skin and he feels his grip slipping. For slip it must, to not foresee Baghra’s betrayal and his sun summoner’s flight. 

How he rages when he finds the truth of what has been happening behind his back. But Aleksander, oh poor sweet Aleksander, locked up for eternity– Aleksander doesn’t let the Darkling kill Baghra like he should. 

No, Aleksander begs mercy for their old, snarky mother and the Darkling grants him thus. It has been a long time since the Darkling conceded anything to Aleksander, but in this matter, he is swayed. Instead of shoving his darkness down her throat, grasping to see if she truly has a heart somewhere in her gnarled body, the Darkling sends for her. 

His mother falls to her feet before him, clutching her rags to her, the warmth of her ridiculous hovel long gone. He stares down at her, only the icy rage and fear, mingled together from both his and Aleksander’s emotions, keeping him in check. She does not apologize. She does not beg. 

She simply stares up at him, with those all knowing eyes. The idea hits him fast and he grins down at her, sharp and cold, every inch the warrior she groomed him to be. “I’m not going to kill you,” he murmurs, placing his hands on her cheeks, the first loving embrace he’s deigned to give her since the Shadow Fold was created. 

Baghra blinks, and then she’s screaming. 

The Darkling isn’t quite the Darkling anymore, but he’s not Aleksander either. He’s closer to the Black Heretic as he watches his mother writhe on the ground her eyesight being ripped from her grasp, his shadows writhing around her skull. 

He can feel when he’s finished and he pulls away, jerking his head at the Oprichniki to take her away. Aleksander is no more in his head and the Darkling can focus on tracking down his sun summoner. 

Maybe he’ll dream of ways to torture her for the rest of her days. Maybe he’ll just kill her after he’s gotten what he desires. The Darkling hasn’t decided yet. 

He’s facing down the girl and her Otkazat'sya, his fingers twitching as the collar is fastened around the sun summoner’s neck. He flexes his hand and light pours into the clearing. 

The darkness in him is both reviled and entranced by the light and he hungrily pushes. More. He needs more. The sun summoner is a never ending flow of light and the Darkling will use every drop of sun inside her before he lets her go. 

Aleksander is silent. 

He tells her to make him her villain. 

The Darkling means it. He is not afraid to be hated. He’s not afraid to be alone. He thinks, maybe just this once, he might not be. Finally, finally, he has found his match. His partner. He dreams of a throne besides his, of a battle easily won. 

The other amplifiers call out to the Darkling, even as he makes his way into the Fold, the volcra swarming above their skiffs. The Darkling is not afraid. He reaches out to the sun at his side, pulling from her wave and wave of light. The volcra screech and even now, he is wavered by their screams. 

They are his children in a sense, but the Darkling pushes on. He has no use for these emotions, not now. He thought he buried them with Aleksander, and as they reach the edge of the Fold, he steels himself. It’s time. 

He reaches out a hand, pushing the dark further. He needs to make an example. The people below scream, but the Darkling can no longer hear them. Let them call him the Heretic once more. Let them scream. 

The sun summoner takes him by surprise, though. He tightens his grasp around her light and it flickers out of his control even further. Before he has the chance to stride toward her, show her who she should really be afraid of, the light winks out. 

His connection to the volcra makes him uneasy as they screech in the sky, and he desperately tries to rectify the situation. Before he can, she slips away and the Darkling’s blackness wraps around him once more. 

The volcra attack and he raises his arms, helpless against the wrath of his creations. He hears the sound of screaming from all around and the tearing of his flesh is nothing but a vague nuisance and he wonders. 

Maybe this is how he ends. 

He’s not sure if this is Aleksander of the Darkling or some foul combination of the two, but he decides he will not die here today. Not because of the sun summoner, not because of the volcra. He is the Darkling and he has been alive longer than anyone can fathom. His reign will not be brought down by one girl. 

And so he gets to his feet and does the only thing he knows how. Summon. 

At first, the Darkling relishes this new expansion of his power. He hasn’t quite realized what it’s taken from him until he’s face to face with the girl again, and has to exert more of himself than he’s comfortable with in order to restrain her. One of his new creations bites her and the Darkling delights in the instant tether between them. 

He knows she feels it too. 

How he pities her, fawning over her Otkazat'sya like he can give her what she truly desires. He loathes the tracker, wishes he could have his darkness swallow him up and have that be the end of it. Cool logic keeps him in place and the Darkling bides his time. 

He knows, as she should, that the Otkazat'sya will never be able to truly understand what she is becoming. He knows the taste of the stag’s power has the sun summoner’s blood singing, has her practically begging for more although she would never admit it. 

He does enjoy taunting the tracker, enjoys the way he flares with rage whenever the Darkling lets his hands linger a touch too long, the way he stands just a hair too close to her. It means nothing to him, just another way to flex his power, but the Darkling relishes it all the same. 

And yet... she manages to flee with the sea whip’s scales, the Otkazat'sya and Ravka and the Darkling is left grasping once more. He forces himself to stop. To reconsider the opponent he hasn’t regarded as worthy of his time. 

Perhaps it is time for a new strategy. Yes. The Darkling has lived centuries, has seen identities come and go and knows that he can wait her out. 

The sun summoner calls to him. He goes, their tether strengthening every time he visits her in his chambers. She doesn’t seem to know if he’s real or a figment of her imagination. The Darkling glances down at the sea whips scale, chaining her wrist and up towards the collar tightened around her neck. 

He knows that she wants the third amplifier, would do anything to get it. So he visits whenever she calls, spends long nights with her and reflects on eternity. He never thought he would be able to find someone who understood what it was like, who understood what a burden power could become. 

He’s not sure if it’s loneliness he feels. Maybe some hybrid combination of loneliness and desire and hatred. He remembers Aleksander used to become lonely, but the concept is foreign to him. He was sequestered away in these very chambers for so long, he can hardly remember what his life was before he took the helm of the Darkling. 

He’s not so sure it was worth remembering. 

The Darkling almost dies at the hands of the sun summoner once more and this must be the ultimate betrayal, he thinks. Being promised something only to have it snatched away is not very pleasant. He does not appreciate his power stolen away from him through their bond and decides in that moment, that he will make the sun summoner pay. 

But no longer the sun summoner is she. Alina Starkov. A fitting name for a fitting adversary. Oh, yes. The Darkling will enjoy hunting her down, hunting her friends. He will enjoy watching her pain as he kills her friends in front of her, he will enjoy watching her beg for mercy. And he will make her beg for mercy. 

But he will not kill her. Death is not a reprieve she deserves and the Darkling knows what the eternity of time looks like. He will quite enjoy having her spend it at her side. He watches as she escapes, on the brink of death once more and knows that in the end, it will be him and Alina. 

He cares not for the would-be prince and cares for the tracker even less. But every fiber of his being craves Alina’s submission and he will have it whether she likes it or not. 

And so he plots and plans, from the palace and waits. His mother dies once and for all and the boy is silent within. The boy who once begged for the Darkling’s mercy, who granted Baghra her life. The Darkling does not know whether he’s gone for good, and doesn’t particularly care either. 

He’s consumed with Alina, obsessed with her downfall. Sometimes, he feels as if the wanting clenching in his stomach will make him sick. 

And still he presses onward. 

He’s not sure how it happens. One minute he’s alive, the next, he’s gasping for breath. He can’t quite seem to catch it and with every heave of his chest comes with a clenching of his heart. He didn’t know that was still beating. 

Is he crying? 

The pulse of his heartbeat echoes in his ears, each thunderous beat chasing away the centuries. They fall away like leaves off a tree, leaving only the skeletal structure of the Darkling. He’s not the Darkling anymore, not really. 

No, he’s not the Darkling. 

He gasps. Turns his head. Lips form the word. Aleksander. Sweet Aleksander, just a boy. Full of ambition and ruthlessness and everything perfect for creating a monster. “Say it,” he says, closing his eyes just once. 

“Aleksander,” she says. Her voice shakes and he wants and aches and regrets.

“Once more,” he breathes. “Speak my name once more.” 

_Aleksander._

Hearing the name drop from her lips, echoing around his skull, bouncing through his soul stops him short. He knows this is it. The void, wide and gaping, waiting for him. 

He’s scared. 

“Don’t let me be alone.” He trails off, the battle in his chest losing. He can’t— he can’t— he can’t breathe. 

His eyes flutter shut as every muscle in his body constricts and he forgets, just for a moment, what it’s like to have the world at his fingers. He forgets the horrors and atrocities committed at his hand and he forgets the chaos he wreaked on this world. 

He forgets the power and the years passed and the cold, endless darkness swallowing his soul. 

He’s back in Baghra’s hut, warmth around him. She flicks her hand, a pool of dark welling up. He’s reaching to drag his fingers through it and she swats him with her cane. “Your turn,” she says, nodding imperiously at his hands. 

He holds them up for her inspection, reaching inside himself and _pulling_. 

He lets it all fall away. The pain, the hate, the confusion. It all turns to dust in his mouth. 

He’s just a boy now, the memory of the Darkling fading away in his mind. He opens his eyes. Closes them. And as he takes his final breath, Aleksander drifts back into darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @amjnyard for more pain


End file.
